


reset

by orphan_account



Series: oumonth 2020 [1]
Category: danganronpa v3 - Fandom
Genre: Affection, Gen, Harassment, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mild Language, Pre-Canon, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Tenderness, Unintentional Hurting, added more to it as of june 2nd!!!, so heres some extra tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24481363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ouma Kokichi is no stranger to what they just signed up for, shimmering pink blood and matted corpses- the monochrome bear mocking them at each swing of Akamatsu’s keychains.
Relationships: Akamatsu Kaede/Oma Kokichi
Series: oumonth 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768354
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43
Collections: Kokichi Ouma Month





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**Author's Note:**

> IT'S STILL JUNE FIRST FOR ME I CAN STILL GET THIS OUT-  
> might add more chapters to it some other day but here you go, a short fic for oumonth.
> 
> edit: decided to add more to this chapter because i was unhappy with how low the word count was, aha-

Despite the way her eyes spiral with unhinged malice, something ugly and rotten outlining each and every magenta pigment, he can’t help but feel a nauseated type of happy.

Akamatsu talks animatedly next to him, the quirk of large hand gestures accompanying each and every little word. Her porcelain lips twitched up into a smile, she looks far off- in another world. As their sodden shoes hit the road, he watches each frown that passes against her lips, each time she pauses in her speech. It’s her faint doubt- the kind that he sees so little of.

Ouma is certain that each time she frowns, each time she pauses, that she’s mulling over each word strung together into a sentence said during her audition. How the bruises that blossom against his chest throb, each time he remembers the dim server room with a girl, porcelain frame thin and sturdy, glowering at him as if she could see the very essence of his being.

Her hesitance is new, cold, fresh. It’s in everything- how she gnaws on her lip, only to slide her tongue over the fresh wound a moment later; how she tears at the hem of her skirt- white-washed threading pulled apart by jagged fingernails. It’s not like he hasn’t been doing the same- his own nervous nails dug into the cuff of his uniform sleeve. How indigo rips and tears under their hold, warped and consumed by their rot.

Ouma Kokichi is no stranger to what they just signed up for, shimmering pink blood and matted corpses- the monochrome bear mocking them at each swing of Akamatsu’s keychains. As a breeze rattles the trees- branches clattering together in the cold winter air, he decides that being re-written, his current self scuffed and buried underneath the work of a pen and paper and television, is the best outcome.

Sooner or later, flimsy envelopes will arrive at both of their doors- and if they’re lucky, they’ll be picked to be rewritten by TDR’s staff, molded into completely new people. Bending between pens and paper, crafted carefully to suit the story they’re telling. It’s not that Ouma is excited- by any means. He’d signed up with the hope that his device would malfunction and kill him. The hope that he wouldn’t live to see another day outside of the simulation, the hope that he would never have to turn back again.

"Kokichi?" Akamatsu's eyes flicker to him, grazing over the bruises that blossom against his jawline and nose- exposed to the moist autumn air. He meets her gaze, the smile from her lips having fallen as she discerns each blooming wound that covers his face. "Did Harukawa-chan-"

Ouma stutters, stiffened limbs posed and locked together. " _ N-no-! _ No! It..." The lopsided smile on his face makes him wince, as it stretches each bruise and marking that dots against paper-white skin. "It was Momota, this time." The way he adds a nervous laugh on the end seems to exasperate her, as she sighs and lifts his chin with a hand almost as pallid as his own.

Warm fingertips brush tenderly against the violet splotches of his skin, never once making him flinch away. By now, they've arrived at the front of Akamatsu's estate- so big and wide but always empty save for her singular body and the ones of faceless maids. "Do you have the stuff to treat this?" They don't speak about the fact that  _ no, of course he doesn't have anything to treat this with, you saw that thing destroyed in front of your too-big, too-bright eyes, Aka-chan. _

Instead of pointing out that last time, last time they had gone to treat it at his cramped apartment, his father decided to come home a little bit too early- Ouma tangles his fingers in between hers, pulling them away from his cheek. Soft skin meets soft skin, the broken fragments of their lives intertwined together into their friendship. Indigo fabric that hangs off their too-thin bodies, two pairs of too-wide eyes staring into each other's souls.

It hits him that he doesn't know exactly what their relationship is- whether their friends or lovers or something in between. Sometimes he hopes it's neither- the pieces left of their lives to be shattered by TDR and their writers, whisked away and replaced by a new, better version of themselves.  _ It's for the best _ , he remembers thinking, as they set foot on the cracked asphalt leading into the sleek building of the team that would reset their entire lives.

Ouma isn't quite sure that this is what he wants anymore.

* * *

"Ugh. I'm going to beat the shit out of him." Is what Akamatsu says after she unbuttons his shirt, warm indigo fabric pooled around him on the cold marble countertops.

Ouma snorts in response, watching as she throws her hair behind her shoulder. "Please don't." Is what he says to her afterward, same placid grin playing at his lips- cracked and dry. He doesn't entertain the thought that it might be fun to lean into her own lips from this distance, startle and fluster that pretty little face of hers. And he knows she doesn't entertain the same thought.

It's quite after that- apart from the dip of the cotton swab pinched between her clumsy, band-aid covered fingers into cold antiseptic. Ouma doesn't wince when it stings against his skin, burning the already painful wounds. Because at the end of the day, it's cleaning them, and therefore cleaning the mistakes that litter his paper-white skin.

Neither of them opt to talk, instead letting each wipe of the cotton against irritated and bruised skin beat a rhythm neither of them have enough musical knowledge to hear. He supposes that was why Akamatsu chose to become a pianist in the virtual world, to play each key, each melody- for him. Of course, neither of them touches upon the fact that their friendship will be entirely overwritten, and there's a chance they'll never be friends during or after the simulation.

But again, neither of them speak. It's a conversation of silent words, the shutter of the vents, and the notion that they signed up to die. Signed their fragmented lives away to a company that would only destroy them more. Maybe it was for the attention. Maybe it was for the money. Neither of them knew. Besides, there was maybe a couple thousand people there- it was such a slim chance, being picked. Maybe they would stay at Akamatsu's estate and binge the entire 53rd season while eating cookie cakes and doing each other's nails and hair.

Eventually, Akamatsu unclenches her fingers from the wet cotton swab, reaching over to the plaster and bandages resting beside her knee. "Hold still." She orders, in the tone that he's so used to hearing around other people. Of course, he knows it's not hostile- towards him, at least -the softness of her eyes telling wonders.

Sometimes he thinks her inability to lie is appalling, but other times he thinks it's enamoring. He can't really choose between the two. Ouma tilts his head to the side as Akamatsu brushes stray black hair away from his cheek blotched with an almost black color. "If I didn't want to bleed out in an alleyway I'd fuck up Momota's life." She hisses, applying the plaster to his wound with an accidental forcefulness.

When he winces, Akamatsu sighs. "Sorry." She mumbles, and makes a point out of handling the bruises on his chest with more care. It's almost sultry, he thinks- an amused smile gracing his lips. The way she moves to caress different parts of his body, brushing her thumb against particularly dark bruises. He once again finds this enamoring, somehow even intoxicating.

Akamatsu Kaede is intoxicating- in her moods, and in her gestures, but most importantly in her strange kindness towards the outcast known as Ouma Kokichi.


End file.
